


Whither Goest Thou?

by Pippin Took (storiesofchaos)



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (Not), Angst, Angst and Feels, Basically a timeline of Faramir's life, Boromir is the best big brother, Brother Feels, Canon Timeline, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Denethor's A+ Parenting, Family Drama, Faramir learning of Boromir's death, Faramir-centric, Gen, Gondor, Minas Tirith, Missing Scene, The Two Towers, War of the Ring, Young Boromir, Young Faramir, this is just really really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 21:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesofchaos/pseuds/Pippin%20Took
Summary: “Boromir!” he heard himself cry out, though he did not recognize himself. The voice sounded too young, too broken, too fearful and afraid. “Where is thy horn? Whither goest thou? O Boromir!”But he was gone.





	Whither Goest Thou?

**Author's Note:**

> I've been feeling quite emotional about Boromir's death lately, especially since Faramir's one of my favorite characters, so I decided to write out my feelings and make others suffer with me! Aren't I nice. 
> 
> I did lift some descriptions and text directly from The Two Towers, including the line that Faramir says near the end (and in the title/summary). I tried to keep it as accurate as possible, but if I happened to miss something please let me know! I'm also extremely bad at keeping the same consistent tense throughout, so sorry if it suddenly goes astray, though I did try and fix anything that didn't work. :)
> 
> For Bella ♡

Since birth, Boromir had always been in Faramir’s life. His earliest memory was Boromir being introduced as his _brother_ , not entirely sure of the meaning, but knowing this was a playmate, his protector. Long days of scampering together throughout the house, past the White Tree, and through each of the levels of Minas Tirith were his younger years. Faramir cannot remember much of that time, but for a hazy glow of happiness that comes with the innocence of childhood.

 And then, death. Five year old Faramir could not understand where his mother had gone, but she had. The brothers watched their father kicking furniture, thundering out of the room where his wife lay dead, leaving his children alone with her. Faramir tried asking what had happened, why did Mother not wake up? But Boromir would not tell him anything, could hardly keep himself from asking the same question as he tried not to let the tears fall.

 Then Faramir had whispered that she looked so beautiful but so sad, too, and now Boromir couldn’t stop from crying and hugging his little brother all the more tightly.

 From that time onwards Faramir kept close to Boromir even more, would hardly leave his side. He had the uncanny ability to know when his older brother was too sad to sleep, and Boromir would often feel a little shadow slip under the covers with him before drying his tears with tiny hands.

 Faramir cried more than a little boy should, too. Without the calm and steady voice of his mother, his father was more frank and cold than usual. He blamed Faramir for everything; for the death of his wife, for his constant agitation, even for the darkness brewing in the East. Curled up in his own room with warm, salty tears rolling down his face, Faramir would hear his brother and father arguing loudly in the next room, the latter trying to tell him how Boromir was just his favorite son of the two, with the former trying to get through to his father on how he wasn’t acting like a _father_.

 It was times like these when Faramir went to his books. Before he had learnt his letters, he sat in Boromir’s lap by the fire and made him read aloud any of the books of old lore they could find. Boromir didn’t find those stories particularly interesting, preferring books on weaponry and war, but if it meant that his little brother was happy, then he would read anything. The comforting voice of Boromir fumbling over archaic words or creating silly character voices that made them both giggle, mixed with the warm glow of the fire, always put Faramir right to sleep. Both would fall into slumber on the rug by the hearth before a new day would come, and then they would most likely repeat the process the next evening, Faramir’s heart feeling a little more crushed each time.

 As he got older, Faramir worked on his studies whenever he wasn’t forced into spending time in the weapons room or on guard outside the Citadel. He preferred to train with his sword only with Boromir, when they would play-fight in the grass of Pelennor Field. Otherwise he learned as much as he could, studying by himself or when Mithrandir happened to visit, fantasizing about traveling to ancient lands filled with mysterious creatures and interesting languages. He knew this only made his father detest him more, but he would rather do what he liked than appeal to that man, no matter how much his heart ached for it.

 Boromir told him to continue doing what he loved, too. In fact, he was the _only_ person to truly understand him, to appreciate his efforts. Faramir was eternally grateful that he had Boromir in his life.

 Soon, chaos— evil thoughts spread and days grew dark. The brothers went through long periods of time without seeing one another, too caught up in the war effort to cross paths. And when they did, it was not for very long. Their father seemed intent on giving his sons as many missions as possible, for _glory_ , he told them. Yet they didn’t risk their lives for fame and glory, instead they protected the city and all the people in it.

 No good man asks for war, nor does he like being a part of it.

 They willingly fight because they love.

 War made Faramir stronger, fiercer, yet his heart was still soft.

 The dream came, then. He had wanted to push it aside, call it nothing, yet he knew not to overlook a dream that came often. Once Boromir told him that he had seen it as well, Faramir wanted to set out for this Imladris himself. Yet his brother would not let him, saying the way was too full of doubt and danger.

 So it was that Boromir left Faramir for the longest stretch of time they had ever been apart thus far. Faramir would often remember the hurried tension of that last day, the way his brother smiled at him one final time. He always wondered if he would ever look upon Boromir’s grin once more or hear his roaring laughter.

 Faramir pondered all of this and more as he sat by the waters of Anduin, keeping watch at the midnight hour. He recalled the haunting sound of the great horn he knew well— this had been keeping him awake for the past few days upon hearing it. He first thought it an echo in his mind, but he knew in his heart that he had heard _Boromir._ Not oft did the horn of his house blow without reason. He was frustrated that he did not know whether Boromir was safe or if he needed help, and fear took him in its chilly grasp.

 All was quiet in the grey darkness, the young moon watching the sad reeds rustle and the ever-moving stream rippling against the shoreline. All seemed asleep and peaceful in the world, which only made Faramir’s thoughts grow louder in the hushed silence.

 When he was on guard defending, making plans, or in battle, he never got time to think. Never time to think about his faults, his father, the fact that he could die in a few seconds, but especially about the happy moments of his life and how quickly they could slip from his grasp. He almost looked forward to times when those thoughts would be driven from his mind, when he could go head first into a skirmish without ruminations. He hated himself all the more for that.

 Now though, now was when the thoughts crept back in, almost cautiously as if scared to see what effect they will make, when— they come flooding in, swirling around until they are all Faramir can think of.

 These moments, in the dead of night where none can see him is when he breaks.

 And break he does.

 He never gets the time to cry, things these days are always almost _too_ terrible to cry, that your mind gets numb and your heart squeezes, but you get used to it. Yet Faramir is still just a man, can only struggle through so many days without the tears falling as they did when he was a boy. He liked to think crying so much when he was younger made his tears dry up as he grew, but no— he’s only stronger after all that sadness, already knowing how it feels to have that dizzy, helpless sensation of _distraught._

Suddenly, as teardrops filled Faramir’s vision, a shape appeared where before there had been only calm water. Something was gliding along the river, and he quickly cleared his eyes before standing up, alert and with his hand at the hilt of his sword. To his bewilderment he realized that it was a strange-fashioned boat with a high prow, yet there was none to steer or row it. It glimmered grey and a pale light seemed to be about it.

Before he knew it, he started walking slowly down to the water as if in a dream, and the boat turned towards Faramir like it was meant to find him. It waded deep as if heavily burdened, and as it made its way closer to Faramir who had stepped into the water, it was only a hand’s reach away. But he dared not touch it.

 The boat passed under his gaze, and it was almost filled with clear water, from which came the light. Lapped in the water a warrior lay asleep.

 He saw the fair belt of linked golden leaves, he saw the broken sword on the man’s knee; but he knew his gear, his sword, his beloved face. His horn was missing and many wounds covered him, yet Faramir knew it was him— his brother, dead.

  _Dead_.

 Faramir’s mind went fuzzy, filled with that word, throbs piercing in his ears.

  _No, no, no!_

 That is instantly what the human brain thinks, believes that if it negates everything then it won’t be real. But yes _,_ it _was_ real.

 Faramir’s whole body shook, the water now getting an icy chill, the night air oppressive and suffocating. The natural world around him seemed too passive right then, too serene for this to be happening. A young man stripped bare of his emotions, thrust into an unending cycle of suffering.

 “Boromir!” he heard himself cry out, though he did not recognize himself. The voice sounded too young, too broken, too fearful and afraid. “Where is thy horn? Whither goest thou? O Boromir!”

 But he was gone.

 His only light in the world, the only one to keep him above water, the water of his self-doubt and anxiety. He had always thought the young maidens exaggerated when they told of their hearts breaking, but he knew now that they do not— his heart was pumping wildly yet it felt as if it were shredding in two, losing faith in itself and crumbling.

 Boromir was never one for dusty scrolls and language, but he made up for it in fighting and cheerfulness. He was always hearty, always one to hug you if you needed it or give you a drink when you earned it. He put endless smiles on Faramir’s face where a second ago had been tears, and he went through too many a stressful strife with his father just for his brother’s sake.

 He was selfless, of mind and heart. Even if he ever were to succumb to greed and fickleness, that would never be his true desire, in the end. He would give his life to protect even the smallest of creatures.

 But Faramir would have willingly taken his place.

 As he came slowly back to awareness of the world, he saw that the boat had now turned and was rounding a bend, glimmering across the stream and into the night.

 His brother was gone, for the last time. 

He didn’t know how much longer he stood there with his feet soaked in water and tears falling over ones that had already dried. It was morning eventually, somehow. The living things of the world came out, chittering or calling. It all felt too fake, yet so annoyingly _real._

 It was time to go back to Henneth Annûn, back to his men, back to fighting for Gondor and all their lives. He didn’t know how he ever managed it, but he did. The night before had felt dreamlike, yet he knew it was no dream for he never woke.

Later, in the throes of battle with not a thought in his mind but to _fight,_ he suddenly saw Boromir’s face on a fallen Southron. He turned, and he saw more of his brother’s faces on the dead bodies of those boys who might have had good hearts and brothers or sisters of their own. And maybe they were grieving somewhere, knowing they will never see their loved ones again, and that is when Faramir thought that truly, _war will make corpses of us all._    


End file.
